I don’t know why I expected her to giggle or act confused. She’s not five years old. She understands lots of shit. She killed a man protecting me. But because she doesn’t act like other women, I keep thinking she’s a child.
“Do you want to have sexual intercourse?” I say, hating that term. “Fucking. That’s what I call it. Do you want me to fuck you? Is that why you’re in the shower?”
“I want to touch you. I don’t care about the rest.”
Her hands reach up to stroke my shoulders. Then her fingers slide down my wet chest to my stomach. I flinch, always ticklish at the spot above my dick. That’s where her hands are headed.
I try to speak. The words get caught in the back of my throat when her fingers caress my hard cock. She looks down at where she strokes me. With her hair blocking her face, I can’t check her reaction. Is she disgusted? Somehow, I doubt it. Pixie isn’t a fragile flower. She’s got thorns. She’ll tell me no and scratch if I don’t listen.
With both hands, Pixie strokes my cock, sliding her fingers slowly over my wet flesh. Her face rests against my chest, inhaling my scent, cuddling against me. I don’t dare touch her. My skin is on fire, and every nerve rages. I press my hands against the sides of the stone shower. My palms burn from the amount of pressure I apply, but I don’t dare remove them from the walls.
Pixie’s left hand reaches down to cup my heavy balls. Her touch is too much. My entire body shakes from pleasure and panic. I feel myself losing control. All the signals in my brain are in overload mode. If I touch Pixie, her thin body will break under the weight of my need.
I shudder as she brings me to orgasm. Staring at the ceiling, I struggle to control myself. I’m afraid of what I’ll say. Or worse, what I’ll do when my hands reach for her.
I try to pretend the woman touching me is one of the bunnies. They know bikers are rough jackasses. I can calm down and enjoy the rush of pleasure.
But no bunny would wrap her arms around my waist and lean into me. They get me off, wait to see if I’ll return the favor, and then go away. Pixie offers comfort after giving me pleasure.
“You look so angry,” she says, stepping back.
I’m ready to give her shit. I don’t know why. I guess I want her to hate me. That’s what I’m used to with women. Pixie can’t pull off cool indifference. This crap is too new for her. No, I’ll have to make her hate me.
But when I lower my gaze to meet hers, I find her face upward, smiling into the water. She’s so relaxed that I can only watch as she dances in the shower.
Finally, her gaze meets mine, and her lips do what they were made for. That smile is more than I can handle. I feel as low as I did in the drug den, staring at Bronco’s gun. Why do I keep living? What’s the point?
“I have a spot,” Pixie says, stepping closer and taking my hand. “Right here,” she whispers, guiding my big fingers between her legs to her clit. “It feels so nice when I touch it.”
“How can you do that when you live around those people?” I ask, yanking my hand free.
Pixie doesn’t answer. Her lips turn downward. I expect her to cry at my rejection. Instead, she looks irritated.
“The story you’re in has many parts that you can’t write,” she says, holding my gaze. “But there are other parts where you get to pick your path. Why do you pick the ugly ones?”
I open my mouth to call her an idiot for believing stupid shit. Her dad isn’t in the next life. He’s rotting in the ground. She’s not a dandelion but a fucking girl. She’s no more special than any other woman. I don’t know why I ever stopped by the side of the road. She’s fucked up my damn life. I’d be better off if I left them to starve.
I feel the words ready to roll off my tongue, but I don’t say that shit. What good would saying them do? If Pixie hates me, then what? I can’t take her back to the Village. The club expects me to pump her for info. They called her my honey. I can’t shut down what’s happening, even if I wanted to.
And I don’t want Pixie to hate me or leave. I need her to tell me I’m special. When she says the words just right, I almost believe her.
“I don’t want to touch you right there,” I finally spit out. “I want to touch you here.”
My finger grazes her right nipple. Pixie stops frowning at me long enough to look down. I imagine her tits are plumper when she hasn’t been starved. There’s no meat left on her body. Only bone and muscles.
But the red flesh of her nipple, already hard from the water, tightens to a point when I touch it. Pixie takes each nipple in her fingers and squeezes them.
“Why here?” she asks, her gaze soft and relaxed again.
“Because when you sit with my head in your lap, I’m close enough to your tits to suck them. I never do, but I want to.”
“Do you want to suck them like a baby?”
“Didn’t your mama tell you that?”
Pixie squeezes her breasts harder as if trying to milk herself. She really doesn’t get it.
I gently push her hands aside and then look at her breasts. They’re right here for me to enjoy. I already touched one nipple. No reason to get fucking shy now.
My rough fingers look wrong against her delicate flesh. Yet, I go slow, making careful movements and remembering I’m not attacking an enemy. This is a beautiful girl. She likes me.
